The human heart is a funny thing. It seems that the heart is always determined to latch onto, to fixate itself onto something unattainable and remote, always encouraging the bearer that it's possible, even when the brain and all other common sense says otherwise. Worst yet was the attempt to hide what the heart said, though Swift Deer thought she had gotten rather good at it. No one could tell- she was a sneaky little thing.
The very picture of wide-eyed, Caucasian innocence, Deer was very aware of how constantly out of place she was with the tribes. All of them shunned her, though none of them did it consciously. To them, she was a sign of the oppression that had lately crept over their people, and a coming danger. Look at her own back story- did not that speak of the cruelty of the white man? But so far, nothing inimical had been done, so they put their fear away, and concentrated on the tasks at hand, always eyeing Deer carefully to see what she might do. It grew tiring after a while, being constantly subjected to the limelight. Once, Deer had tried to dye her blonde locks black with berry juice, but it had only served to make her hair an odd shade of purple for a day, after which it came off as she washed. Besides, her hair seemed to be the least of it. There was no way to cover her pale skin or blue eyes.
There was one, however, that never seemed to judge Deer. That was why she was so fixated on him, though she would never tell. Dancing Otter. He was a bit of a rogue really- everyone had heard the stories of his various conquests over both men and women, and this was why Deer would never confess to him. She refused to be another notch in the bedpost, another conquest for Otter to brag about later. Instead, she relegated herself to friendship, pent up and always silent. Mayhap one day, when they were both old and grey, she would tell him, but for now, the young woman kept entirely mum.
Her thoughts carefully steering away from the obvious and lustful, Deer picked up her own bow and quiver of arrows. She was a good shot, and would often playfully boast about it. Competition intrigued her, and she felt herself always striving to be taken seriously by the men of the tribe. She could bring in her own food, and today she would prove it once again. She would just need help carrying the carcass, and this is where her good friend Otter would come in. He was taller and stronger than herself, and the two of them could probably lug a deer home. There wouldn't be buffalo, but a deer would be more than enough to feed Deer and her reclusive mother (who almost never emerged, sunk in the shame of a summer twenty years past, when the unspeakable had happened).
"Hoy, Otter!" The sound of the river filled Deer's ear, moving her blood so that she grew in excitement. "Do you want to go hunting?" How could he resist the offer? A woman who wasn't half-bad (and certainly unusual looking) and hunting. What man could possibly want more?
